Grief warps our perception of time, and Phillippa Lowthorpe’s H Is for Hawk captures this distortion with gentle steadiness. Claire Foy moves through the frame with a subtle, luminous presence, her restrained performance reflecting inner turmoil rather than overt expression. The film’s quiet power resides in the tender pressure surrounding her, illustrating how the world seems to close in as she struggles to maintain her sense of self. Lowthorpe thoughtfully explores this inward contraction, creating a work that is both tender and severe—a compassionate study of a mind desperate to hold onto its identity.
The film’s emotional depth is rooted not in dramatic escalation but in the gentle buildup of small details. Charlotte Bruus Christensen’s camera tenderly captures textures—feathers, wood grain, the soft glow of morning light—surfaces that become the emotional language Helen struggles to express. The hawk, Mabel, is more than a metaphor; she is a calming presence that subtly influences Helen’s world. The film’s success lies in how it allows that presence to gently guide the rhythm of each scene, fostering a sense of organic flow that deepens the emotional resonance.
Foy’s performance is the film’s heartfelt anchor. She portrays Helen with a tender, brittle resolve, a quiet refusal to break despite the turmoil within. The film gently refrains from forcing her into clarity, instead trusting the audience to sense the unseen wounds beneath her composed exterior. This trust imbues the film with a profound strength, choosing to observe grief’s unpredictable and fragile nature rather than explaining it.
Lowthorpe’s direction becomes most heartfelt when she allows the film to touch upon the wildness that Helen longs for. The training sequences with Mabel have a mesmerizing quality, with each gesture carefully considered, each moment tinged with vulnerability. These scenes are not just about falconry; they explore themes of control, surrender, and the fragile boundary between them. The film’s deeper sadness emerges here, not because Helen is finding healing, but because she is gradually losing herself in the discipline she hopes will rescue her.
The film’s loose structure is intentional, reflecting the unpredictable nature of grief. Helen’s journey through mourning is often chaotic and disorienting, and the director chooses not to impose false order on that process. This slight disarray in the narrative authentically echoes Helen’s own feelings of confusion and loss, embracing the vulnerability that comes with deep mourning. The film’s honesty lies in its acknowledgment of how grief can blur clarity and cause the mind to wander unexpectedly.
What resonates most is the film’s refusal to sentimentalize the bond between Helen and Mabel. Their connection is intense, raw, and at times emotionally challenging. Lowthorpe highlights how devotion can serve as a way to find refuge, yet that refuge can also become a source of danger. The film’s melancholy stems from this delicate balance: the hawk provides comfort, but that comfort threatens to distance Helen further from the human world she is struggling to face.
The supporting cast—Denise Gough, Brendan Gleeson, Sam Spruell—adds depth and nuance without overshadowing the central relationship. Their presence gently reminds us of the world Helen yearns to escape, a world that moves forward even as she feels stuck. Gleeson’s brief appearances carry a quiet, heartfelt gravity, reflecting the profound loss that set everything in motion. Gough’s Christina offers a warmth that Helen longs for but cannot yet embrace, and the film approaches this distance with tenderness and understanding rather than judgment.
Lowthorpe’s adaptation thoughtfully honors the memoir’s inner world while respecting the visual language of film. The film’s deepest achievement is its patient understanding; it gently waits for genuine emotion to emerge, rather than forcing it. It allows silence to speak softly and considers the hawk’s movements as subtle punctuation, delicately illustrating Helen’s unspoken shifts in mood with a sensitivity that she herself cannot fully articulate.
By the time the film reaches its final moments, Helen has not fully transformed; instead, she has only shifted, gently, closer to her true self. The film concludes with that subtle, tender shift—rejecting superficial triumphs and easy closure—while gently holding out the faint hope of steadiness. It is a beautiful, wounded work, and its sadness feels deeply earned and authentic.
Letter Grade: A–. On Amazon Prime Video.
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